Gerald Tiperino was not a big tipper, little tipper, or any kind in between. He was a petty thief who kept his money in his back-pants pocket.

One might assume he was upset when it escaped through a hole. He was, angry as a stepped-on rattler. Disinterested in fine points of law, he made a quick arrest, no trial, no lawyers, no innocent until proven guilty, no last words. He went straight to sentencing.

"May the Lord have mercy on your soul."

He used two clothespins; they grabbed like crocodiles.

It was over in a moment.

Tiperino hung his pants.

Cops took one look at the scene, found a blond hair, and made a quick arrest. The fat Sergeant with a toothpick in his crooked little mouth said, "Pick her up, boys."

She's my girl, and I know the rush-to-judgment coppers got it wrong. Butler did it. He left the trial joyously while my girl planned her last meal..

"Spaghet t i, please."

I followed him out. Shot him until he confessed. "Robbery gone bad. We did it together.

I saw her again; we dined alone. Midway through, warden came.

She refreshed her lipstick.
We kissed goodbye.
Then, she had to leave.

thebookaconvenientsupectrivera

We spent our first night together making love, and I
expected more to come.

"Call me."

"Sure thing, babe."

Then he reached over and grabbed an unfinished
cigarette.

On the way home, I was almost hit by the drunkest
driver. I ran back to the sidewalk. He missed me by a
mile. No matter, I was in love.

Crazy love.

I went to sleep expecting to wake up to roses at my
door. But there were no roses then, or ever. No nothing.
We spent a joyous night together; that was all he
had to give.

Short term.
But perfect.

The cat was on a steep church roof; the three blind mice ran far ahead. The farmer's wife, with a carving knife, ran close behind.

Sixteen wobbly legs leaped from the roof.

The mice, with seeing eye canes to guide them, landed in soft, fresh snow. The cat died on broken glass but had eight lives to go.

The farmer's wife, resembling sliced egg-colored red, stumbled far behind. She fell from the roof, landed dead, and remained so.

Someone stole her purse.

ME's conclusion. "Death by carving knife. Anniversary gift. Defective or intended unknown. "But it worked on its own. "1

Van Gouh was an artist with amateurish talent, but his paintings sold for millions. Stick figure men, mostly.

Critic Peter Souse felt the art world, pretentious as it was, needed a fraud, provided Van Gouh, and advanced his career.

Only when Souse, envious of his own creation, flooded the market with his own stick figure men -did the former friends became bitter rivals. Art critics debated who was the worse of the two.

The market for Gouh’s and Souce’s collapsed; each died penniless.

The stick figure ...

I am old enough to be your grandfather, don’t notice it, but others do, but young people give up their seat on the subway and I get help crossing the street.

“Hold it, Mister. IT’S RED!”

“Say what?”

“It’s red!!!!!!”

I like the attention; guess it’s what being pretty is like.

Today, I’m sitting on the park bench near the high school. I look up from my paper; here comes the cheerleader and her man.

Ooh. Short skirt.

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I spent the summer working on a Mr. Bean's ice cream truck and when I was through, he paid me with a rain check.

"Sorry," said Mr. Potter of First National City, "we cash only papers checks here."

I had a similar problem at each bank, and check casher, I called on.

"Too wet to cash," they told me. Dispirited, I sat on the curb, had a takeout cheeseburger, fries and a diet cola.

I was famished; the food was delicious.

Didn't notice ...

One day worse came to worse. He figured they had a lot in common, and after a period of getting to know each other, they'd live happily ever after. And for a while they did.

But an unintended consequence arose Each brought out the best in each other, and whatever they once saw in each other was gone They fought regularly; they gave each other no peace.

"You are!"

Over time, they returned to their old worse, and worser, selves But that's not what encouraged them to give it ...

One thing you could count on, same as death, taxes, win some, lose some, was Frankie Diperino was one mean dude. Shoot you for looking at him wrong. When he turned nice, there had to be an explanation. "Diperino," said the doctors, " You're dying. Got a month at most."

Humpty and Dumpty lied; did so, hoping the news would calm him.

When Diperino caught on it was ready, aim and fire. Bullet met target, bodies fell, things looked grim.

You can guess the rest.
None of their doctors, and ...

An ice cream truck approached Yankee Stadium. It was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count, Yanks down by one.

The truck sounded the same few notes while not ten feet away, a purse snatcher plied his trade on the oldest-looking, whitest-haired, most wrinkled, bony-fingered, four-eyed woman, wearing the largest pink-framed sunglasses I ever saw.

I wondered if I should call 911 or walk away when her knee, aimed like her life depended on it, met the space below his baseball bat.

Her problem solved.

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